Mom Karma Is a Bitch

I love mom karma—that satisfying moment when someone else’s judgmental parenting comes back to bite them in the ass.

Now, I’m not a vindictive person. But I do relish feeling vindicated, knowing that I’m not such a schlep parent after all.

For years, I was friends with a mom (let’s call her Stella) who lives nearby.

We met when I was taking my son Trevor, then 18 months old, for a walk. Trevor was in the throes of the Terrible Twos, so after a few minutes of our sons toddling around together in the driveway, Trevor started throwing one of his horrific, screaming, kicking tantrums. Her 19-month-old son Jimmy, with his freshly polished halo, played quietly nearby in his clean colour-coordinated Gymboree outfit, probably chasing a butterfly and picking a flower for Stella, as beams of sunshine bounced off his cute cherubic cheeks. Stella just stood there, never offering up a consoling “don’t-worry-my-Jimmy-throws-tantrums-too” admission.

Embarrassed that Trevor’s non-stop tantrum was our first impression, I picked Trevor up, threw him over my shoulder still kicking and screaming and yelled, “IT WAS NICE TO MEET YOU!” as I hurried back home in humiliation.

That symbolic start summed up our seven-year friendship—me with the real kids (two messy boys who fight a lot) always ready to bare my struggles, and Stella with the angelic kids (three matching-outfitted, best-friend boys) always working hard to maintain the facade of perfection.

In every interaction, Stella conveyed an undertone of silent judgment, whether she shot me a raised-eyebrow look of superiority or zinged me with her tone of subtle contempt. I always left our get-togethers feeling less-than and wondering where I went wrong as a parent.

But the mom karma was coming. I just needed to wait patiently.

First, let me share some of my favorite Stella gloat-quotes:

When talking about scheduling playdates (with me needing to separate my boys a few times a week so they wouldn’t kill each other): “My kids don’t need playdates with other kids because they never fight. They’re best friends.” (Really? I’ve seen them hit each other with their own shoes. And five years later, middle son Johnny will push younger son Evan so hard that he falls and breaks his collarbone. Best friends, my ass.)

When talking about the start of the upcoming school year (with me worried how Trevor struggles to make friends): “Jimmy is so well-liked that the second grade teachers are fighting over which one gets to have him in their class next year. And at P.E., he’s always the first one picked for the team.” (Please, tell me more about Jimmy’s popularity.)

When talking about manners (with me having just reminded Trevor to say “please” and “thank you”): “Everyone tells me how polite my boys are. I guess I taught them right.” (Really? You’d be mortified to know that Jimmy, without asking permission, opened my fridge last week and helped himself to a fistful of lunchmeat.)

Even Stella presented her damn dog as the perfect pup, never sharing stories of Fido peeing on the carpet or barking at 3 a.m. Nope, Fido only snuggled sweetly with the boys or protected their home from would-be intruders. He was freakin’ Underdog.

On and on it went for years. Me, being real, exposing my struggles, showing my vulnerability, wanting to get a little “I hear ya, girlfriend! Wait till I tell you what mischief my boys got into” reciprocity from Stella. But it never came.

Stella only shared her successes, always raving about the adorable things her kids said and the sweet things her husband did, never exposing a crack in her well-polished armor.

Then without explanation (and without any “incident” that drove us apart), Stella and her kids stopped being friends with me and my kids. No more birthday party invitations, playdates, sleepovers, or phone calls. Not even a Christmas card. It took me a few months to notice Stella had covertly extracted her family from ours, like a stealth rescue mission as well executed as the CIA extracting POWs from a war zone.

Being a conflict-avoider, I debated what to do. Should I confront her? Ignore her? Wave politely when we passed by in the neighborhood? Flip her the finger? In the end, I did nothing.

Why? Well, at first, I felt hurt, like a woman scorned. Then I felt mad, as in, “She’s unfriending me? Seriously?” And finally, I felt relieved as I realized I no longer had to listen to her utopian family tales that always made me feel like a bad mother.

To this day, I have no idea why Stella and her kids basically dumped us. And I no longer care, as I’ve since found friends who support me, encourage me and commiserate with me.

Flash forward a decade.

I ran into Stella at a high school football game, where our boys both played in the marching band. Stella had gained about 20 pounds and looked tired and disheveled, like real life finally caught up with her and gave her a well-deserved smack-down.

Apparently, the perfection bubble had burst, as Stella shared tales of Jimmy’s irresponsibility and Johnny’s gaming addiction and Hubby’s slacking off on fatherly duties. Meanwhile, little Evan morphed into a hyperactive mischief-maker, causing parents to whisper “Wow! I’m glad he’s not my son!” 

Stella, who exclusively spun stories of perfection, finally lives in the real world with the rest of us. I felt gratified to witness this comeuppance, after all those years of Stella induced self-doubt, second-guessing my every parenting move.

Mom karma is a bitch.

About the author: You can find Lisa Beach on her writer’s website  http://www.lisabeachwrites.com
Want a laugh? Visit her humor blog, http://www.tweeniormoments.com/, which tackles middle age, family, friends and all the baggage that goes with it.